Going Home
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A reboot of Two Stories, without all the school stuff. (And hopefully without Cuddy being totally OOC).
1. Chapter 1

**This one is based on a prompt from suzmum. But I can't tell you what her prompt was, cause that would ruin the fic. I basically took the (annoying) premise of Two Stories and lost all the (even more annoying) school stuff. **

"I want you to care about more than just what you want, what you think," Cuddy said. "You need me, House. And you may even love me. But you don't care about me. And I deserve someone who does."

She closed the door on his stunned face.

He stood there for a few seconds, thinking she'd come to her senses, open the door, but she didn't. He considering banging on the door again, re-stating his case. But something about the tone in her voice seemed definitive—permanent, even.

Dejectedly, he got back in his car and drove to his apartment.

He hadn't been there in a while. The whole place seemed foreign to him, like an artifact from another time, another life. It was almost the complete opposite of Cuddy's house, which was bright and cheery and filled with homey touches. House's apartment was dimly lit, crammed with books, tastefully decorated. It was a loner's house—it reflected a life of the mind, not a life to be shared with others.

He sat on the couch, feeling a sense of dread creep up his spine. Was this it? Was this who he was again?

He rubbed his leg—his fucking useless leg—thinking about an argument he and Cuddy had a few days ago. She'd asked him to take some old luggage out of the closet because she wanted to give it to Goodwill.

"I would but my leg's been flaring up…" he said, rubbing his leg pathetically.

She rolled her eyes, almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.

Of course, he had caught it.

"What was that for?"

"Nothing," she said.

"It was obviously something," he countered.

She hesitated.

"It's just that your leg pain is just so incredibly convenient," she said.

"Are you suggesting that my leg _doesn't_ hurt?" he snarled.

"No," she had said, her voice softening a bit. "That's not what I mean. I just mean it's _possible_ you have used your leg as an excuse to get out of doing things you don't want to do. Am I wrong?"

"Yes," he said stubbornly. "You're 100 percent wrong."

She raised her eyebrows.

"The luggage weighs 30 pounds. I weigh 105 pounds. And yet you've never had a problem picking me up and carrying me to the bedroom," she said. But her tone had changed; she was teasing him.

"Something tells me the luggage doesn't put out," he said.

And she had laughed.

Now, he sat on the couch, in absolute misery. Of course, she was right—he did occasionally use his leg pain as an excuse. But she didn't realize how much it hurt, every moment of every day. Nobody understood his pain. It was his to bear, alone. And that absolutely sucked.

He poured himself a drink, thought about the exasperated look on Cuddy's face. The anger in her voice.

"I'm just…done," she had said, earlier in her office.

How could she think for even a second that he didn't care about her? What more could he do? Did he have some sort of innate character flaw that prohibited the woman he loved from knowing how much she meant to him?

He put his head in his hands. The pain in his leg and the dread he was feeling threatened to overwhelm him.

And that was when he remembered he was home. There were pills.

His mind raced for a second, thinking of all his hiding places. When he came home from Mayfield, he had thrown out the obvious ones: The shoe box in the closet, the coffee canister in the kitchen, the hollowed out book on the shelf.

There were the the pills behind the medicine cabinet, but those were gone, too—thrown out by Cuddy, in happier times.

And there was. . . shit, shit, shit…where had he put them? He tried to retrace his steps, reflect on those dark moments when he had hid them. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He opened his piano's lid and reached under the soundboard. There, tucked in the corner of the piano's belly, was a velvet pouch. Inside was a tuning fork, some guitar picks, and . . . his vicodin.

He shook three pills into his palm and stared at them. The relief they represented was almost indescribable. Three small pills in his hand and all the pain would go away—not just the physical agony but the emotional agony, too.

_You're stronger than this_, he chided himself.

_Who the fuck are you trying to kid?_ another voice said. _No, you're not._

And, laughing with disgust at his own weakness, at the miserable wretch that he was and always would be, he downed the pills in one gulp.

Then he leaned back on the couch and felt the relief wash over him—warm and soothing and familiar. He shuddered a bit, closed his eyes. His heart rate regulated. And he sighed deeply. It was the first time he had been truly pain free in almost two years.

He sat like that on the couch, feeling this strange mix of guilt and euphoria—how could anything that made him feel this good be bad?—when his phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID: "The Boss"—Cuddy.

For a ridiculous, irrational second, he felt like he had been busted. Somehow, she knew. She always knew. Then he tried to calm the fuck down.

_There's no way she knows you just took pills. Get a hold of yourself, House_.

So he answered.

"Hey," he said, cautiously.

"You asleep?" she asked.

He could tell right away, just from the softness in her voice that she wasn't mad anymore.

"No," he said.

"Me neither," she said. "I can't sleep. I feel terrible about our fight."

"Same here," he said eagerly.

"I should never have kicked you out," she said. "That was wrong. You did a few thoughtless things, but of course you care about me. That was a horrible thing to say."

He felt like he was going to cry.

"I deserved it."

"No, you didn't. That's the point. I can't just kick you out whenever I'm unhappy with you. The punishment didn't fit the crime. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

"I have to think it over—okay, I forgive you."

He could almost hear her smile on the other end.

"It's late," she said. "So I won't ask you to come home but just know that I wish you were right here beside me."

"I'll be over in 20 minutes," he said.

When he hung up the phone, he was so giddy, he almost forgot that he was high as a kite.

He went to the bathroom, looked at his eyes—dilated and somewhat glassy. He splashed water on his face. Then he took a pen light, shined it directly in his eyes in an attempt to get the pupils to constrict. It didn't really work.

He would have to hope that she would already be in bed or that it would be so dark she wouldn't notice. No shot he was staying in this god forsaken apartment for one more minute.

He put on his overcoat and headed to the door. He stood with his hand on the doorknob for a few seconds, frozen with indecision. Then he went back inside, grabbed the pills and shoved them into his pocket.

######

He was in luck. When he got home, she was already asleep. In the dark, he rolled the pills into a pair of socks in the drawer she had emptied for him. Not the best hiding place, but it would have to do for now.

He put on his pajamas and climbed into bed next to her. He put his arms around her, half-waking her.

"I'm not asleep," she said groggily.

"Definitely not," he teased.

"I wanted to stay awake for you," she murmured, curling into his touch.

"It's okay," he said, kissing the top of her head and holding her more tightly. "Just go back to sleep."

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too."

His leg didn't hurt and he was holding the woman he loved in his arms. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this happy.

######

Cuddy woke up with a start and looked at the clock next to the bed: 8:30. Shit, she had overslept!

She put on slippers and a robe, rushed into Rachel's room. But the crib was empty.

"Rachel?" she shouted, just shy of being alarmed. "House?"

"In here," House said breezily. She followed his voice into the kitchen and was stunned by what she saw: Rachel, fully dressed in her high chair, eating Cheerio's; House standing next to the toaster with a full pot of coffee on the stove.

"Mama!" Rachel said, beaming at her. "Howse got me dressed!"

"I see that," she said. It was a creatively funky ensemble. Yellow Submarine tee-shirt with a denim jacket over it, pink polka-dotted skirt, blue and yellow striped tights, red unlaced chucks—basically how House would dress if he were a toddler girl.

"Coffee?" House said, leaning over to kiss Cuddy good morning.

"Am I dreaming?" Cuddy said.

"No, I just thought you deserved to sleep in for a change," House said. "I'm told it's what caring boyfriends do."

"Still doesn't explain why you're doing it," she cracked.

"Ha ha," House said, pouring her a mug. He added a bit of non-fat milk, without asking, then sat down next to her. "I'm turning over a new leaf."

"I could get used to this leaf," she said, sipping the coffee.

#######

Several nights later, House was sitting in his favorite chair, reading a medical journal. Cuddy was on the phone with an old friend. Rachel was on the floor pretending to be a dog.

"Woof!" she said to House. "I'm a dog!"

"That's cute, kid," he said, giving her an obliging, if half-hearted, pat on the head.

"Woof! Woof!" she repeated.

"Can you go be a dog over there?" House said, trying to concentrate on the article.

"Woof! Woof! I'm a dog named Snoopy! Play with me!"

"I'm actually the dog catcher, so you should probably stay away from me."

"Grrrrrr," Rachel said, baring her teeth (adorably, but House was immune).

"Kiddo, I'm trying to read this article," he said. He gave an imploring look in Cuddy's direction, but she was busily chatting away, oblivious.

"I'm not a kiddo, I'm a dog! Woof!"

He inhaled sharply, trying to remain calm.

"Actually, Rach, you're a kid. And right now, a very, very annoying kid."

"Woof!" Rachel said, actually biting on his pants leg with her teeth. "Woof! Woof!"

"Christ, could you please LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE?" House said, shaking her off his leg.

Rachel recoiled, in shock, at the anger in his voice and the near-hostility of his gesture. Cuddy's mouth dropped open. "I'll call you back," she said to her friend.

"Mama!" Rachel wailed, tears already streaming down her face. "Maaaaaaama!"

"Oh shit," House said, under his breath.

"Come here, sweetie," Cuddy said, taking Rachel in her arms and glaring at House. "It's okay. It's okay, baby. House didn't mean to yell at you. _Did he_?"

"No," House said, bowing his head. "I'm sorry, Rach."

Rachel just kept crying, ignoring him.

"C'mon sweetie, it's late," Cuddy said. "Let's get ready for bed. Tell House you forgive him."

"No!" Rachel sniffed.

"That's right, Rach," House said. "Stand your ground. I was a jerk. I don't deserve your forgiveness."

Cuddy made a face at him, then carried Rachel into the bedroom. About half an later, she emerged.

"Is she okay?" House said, worried.

"She's fine. No thanks to you. What the hell was that all about? You're usually so patient with her."

"I…don't know. I guess I, uh, really wanted to read this article," he said.

She grabbed the magazine out of his hands: "_A Complex Case of Pleuritic Chest Pain_," she read. "Yeah, sounds real fascinating."

"Can I go see her?" House asked.

"Knock yourself out," Cuddy said. "But she might already be asleep."

But she wasn't. She was lying in her crib, whispering to her stuffed animals. When she saw him, she turned away, her tightly balled up back expressing her anger. (He almost laughed: Substitute footie pajamas for a slinky negligee and Cuddy had been known to express her anger in a similar fashion.)

"Hey," he whispered, touching her back.

She didn't answer.

"Hey, Snoopy."

"I'm not Snoopy, I'm Rachel," she said mopily.

"Oh, I thought you were Snoopy. Too bad, I brought you some dog biscuits."

This captured her interest. She reluctantly turned to him.

He reached into a pocket and pulled out some cookies. He handed her two.

"Those aren't dog biscuits," she said, inspecting them. "They're animal crackers."

"Nope, " he said. "Definitely dog biscuits. For dogs. Like you."

She gave a sneaky smile—understanding the gesture. She took one, bit it.

"Woof," she said approvingly.

He smiled back.

"Glad you like it, Snoop."

#######

"I'm worried about House," Cuddy said to Wilson a few days later at lunch.

"If I had a dime for every time you started a conversation like that, you'd have to call me James Rockefeller."

"Right back at you," Cuddy said dryly.

"Fair enough. What's he done now?"

"He's been moody," Cuddy said.

"House? Moody? _Never!_"

"No. It's worse than usual. He vacillates from being super cheerful to being short-tempered. One minute he's helping around the house and then he turns around and starts yelling at Rachel. I haven't seem him like this since…"

"Since he was on Vicodin," Wilson said, getting it.

"Yeah."

"So ask him."

"I can't just go up to him and say, 'Hey House, are you back on drugs?'. What if I'm wrong? He'll be furious at me. And . . ." she looked down at the table. "What if I'm right?"

Wilson looked at her.

"If you're right, he'll need your help."

She sighed.

"I know. . . But I can't just accuse him of being on drugs. I have zero proof."

"So ask his team. You're talking about a guy who used to brazenly pop pills in front of his colleagues and patients. Someone will have seen him do something."

"Good point."

So Cuddy went to Foreman. Yes, he'd noticed that House had been moodier than usual. (He assumed it had something to do with his relationship with Cuddy.) No, he hadn't seen any Vicodin.

"But now that you mention it, he keeps…disappearing."

"Disappearing?"

"Yeah, like he just walks out in the middle of a differential."

"Where does he go?"

"He never says."

Cuddy nodded. _Shit._

Still, that wasn't exactly proof—and certainly not a good enough reason to accuse him.

She supposed she could ask without asking, be subtle about it. But the problem with House was, he'd see through any attempts at diplomacy. So if she said, "You've been moody lately. What's up?" Or "Foreman says you've been disappearing." His immediate response would be: "You think I'm back on drugs."

Bottom line: either she confronted him directly or she continued to ride it out until she got actual proof.

And then, just like that, she got the proof she needed. She was getting something out of the hall closet and noticed the box where House kept all his video game stuff.

_The one box in the entire house that she would never voluntarily open_.

Feeling guilty about not trusting him, she began removing the contents. The console, the controls, the cables, the headset. Nothing else. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, just to be sure, she turned the box over, shook it: And out came a small unmarked vial of pills. She recognized them immediately as Vicodin.

She slumped to the ground, feeling vaguely ill.

It wasn't that she was surprised so much as. . . disappointed. Profoundly, deeply disappointed—and scared, too. She didn't know what this meant. For him. For her. For _them_.

One thing was for sure, she had no choice but to talk to him now.

_To be continued. . ._


	2. Chapter 2

She was in luck. The pendulum of his moods had swung toward the "good" side.

She waited to confront him—gently—that night in bed.

Of course, he had other things in mind.

"We need to talk," she said, just as he was sliding her nightie strap off her shoulder and kissing her throat.

"Okay, I need my tongue in your pussy right _now_," he whispered. "Your turn!"

"Not that kind of talk," she said, sitting up.

His mouth had migrated from her throat to her cleavage, but he now saw that she was serious.

"Oh," he said, stopping his ministrations. "Major buzzkill. What's up?"

"I don't want you to get upset," she said evenly.

"Then let's go back to what we were doing!" he offered cheerfully.

"House, I'm not joking here."

"This conversation is getting worse by the second."

"I have to tell you something. And you need to know that I'm not judging you. Anything I say is because I love you and I want you to be healthy."

"Too late," he said, glancing disparagingly at his leg.

She held her breath for a moment, then blurted it out:

"I know about the drugs," she said.

She studied him. Not even the slightest flinch.

"I know you know," he said. "Remember, I went to rehab. Hallucinated sex with you. It was a thing."

She refused to be steered off course.

"I know that you're on drugs _right now_."

"No, I'm not," he said.

"House, I found your pills."

He folded his arms.

"What pills?"

"In the box with all your video game stuff."

"And you just _happened_ to be emptying the contents of that box?"

There was already defensiveness and rancor in his voice. Any vision she'd have of a calm, even loving, discussion was out the window. Not that she'd really held out much hope for that.

"I was looking for pills," she said.

"Why?" he said, testily.

"Because you've been acting . . .different."

"Different how?"

"Moodier than usual."

"I have a hole in my leg. Some days it makes me less cheerful than others."

"You yelled at Rachel!"

"And I felt like shit about that. But we're good. She accepted my peace offering."

He squinted at her. "That's all the proof you needed to start rummaging through my stuff?" he said. "That I yelled at Rachel when she was _biting my pants leg_?"

"Foreman said that. . ." she started, meekly.

"_Foreman_?" he interrupted. Now the look on his face was positively lethal. "You talked to Foreman about your little suspicions?"

"House, I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were hiding your use from me but might be less …cautious around your team."

"And did Foreman see me take any drugs?" he said, knowingly.

"No."

"Exactly."

"He said you've been disappearing for stretches of time. Wandering off in the middle of differentials."

"I'm 51. The prostate's not what it used to be. Come on, Cuddy. This is ridiculous."

"Then explain the pills," she said, pointedly.

"I brought that box from my old apartment. I must've forgotten they were in there. Back in my addict days, I had hiding places so good, you'd need a Search and Rescue team to find them."

"That box didn't seem like a hiding place for you. It seemed like a hiding place _from me_."'

He had that look on his face that she'd seen many times, mostly around his team or clinic patients: Like he was talking to somebody who was very slow.

"What part of I hid the pills _everywhere_ did you not understand?" he snarled.

She looked him in the eyes.

"So you're really saying those pills are old? Left over from before you got sober?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Let me ask you: Were they buried at the bottom of the box? Did you have to shake the box hard to find them?"

Cuddy hesitated.

"Yes, but that doesn't. . ."

"Cuddy, what's this all about—really? Because I've got to say this is totally coming out of left field."

"It's just that. . . addicts relapse. We both know it's true."

"I've worked hard for my sobriety," he said.

"I know you have," she said, taking his hand. He wasn't looking at her.

"Why would I relapse?" he said, adding, somewhat anxiously: "Everything's going great between us, right?"

"Yes. It is. . .It's just that. . .we had that big fight a few weeks ago. When I sent you home."

"I was home for three hours! You think that's when I relapsed? That I'm so weak? That I have so little willpower?"

"This isn't about willpower or strength. It's about being human."

"So my grip on my sobriety is so tenuous, one fight and I'm off the wagon? You really think that poorly of me? That's great, Cuddy. That's just fucking great."

And he got out of bed and angrily limped away.

She watched him, astonished. Suddenly, she felt confused. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe this was all in her head. If House had been a little moody since their fight, maybe the fight itself was actually to blame, not the pills. She'd made him feel unsafe, like she could kick him out at any time. That would make anyone feel a little . . .unsteady.

She got out of bed, put on a robe, and went to find him. He was outside, on the deck, still in his pajamas, brooding.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He didn't answer.

She stood behind him, put her arms around his neck.

"I'm really sorry okay? It wasn't fair to accuse you. Please forgive me."

He still wouldn't look at her.

"Sometimes my imagination gets the best of me," she said.

"I'll say," he muttered.

She ran her hand through his hair.

"Come back to bed, okay? It's cold out here."

"I gotta tell you Cuddy. It hurts like hell that you don't trust me."

"I do trust you. I promise."

"No more accusations?" he said.

"No more accusations," she said.

He closed his eyes, then opened them, stood up so he was facing her.

"I love you," she said, kissing him.

"I love you, too," he said, kissing her back. But she felt like there was something almost mournful in his kiss—like they had lost something they could never get back.

#####

"I'm an idiot," Cuddy said to Wilson the next day at lunch.

He took a forkful of his quiche Lorraine.

"How so?"

"I confronted House with my suspicions."

"And?"

"He shot me down."

"Shocker."

"I believed him," she said, defiantly.

"Are you familiar with the old riddle: How can you tell an addict is lying? He's moving his lips."

"I know. But everything he said made perfect sense. And he seemed really, really hurt that I would accuse him like that."

"Of course he did," Wilson said.

"Meaning?"

"If House was on Vicodin, do you think he'd tell you? Or do you think he'd deny it—and make you feel guilty for even asking?"

"I hope he would tell me. I _assume_ he would deny it. But this was different…When I first accused him, it was an ambush, of sorts. Intentionally. I didn't want to give him a chance to get his story straight. And he didn't even flinch. When I said, 'I found the pills' he didn't say, 'Let me explain.' He said, 'What pills?""

"There is one thing you need to always remember about House: He's smarter than you."

"He's smarter than you, too."

"I know that. He's smarter than everyone. The difference between you and me? I never forget that he's a calculating, manipulative bastard. You, on the other hand, let your heart get in the way."

"Screw you," she said, under her breath.

"It's not a bad thing," Wilson said, gently. "You love the guy. You want to see the best in him. I'm just saying. . .be careful."

"I am," she said, glumly.

Later, she went by House's office to see if he was still mad at her. But he wasn't there.

"He went home sick," Chase told her. "Some sort of stomach bug."

"Really?"

She called his cell, but he didn't pick up. Then she called her home number. The nanny answered.

"Is House home sick?" she asked.

"No, Dr. Cuddy. It's just me with Rachel."

"Huh."

She called his cell again, still no answer. Now she was actually getting worried.

So she drove to his apartment, banged loudly on the door.

He opened it, but only partially, the chain latch was still on.

"Hey," she said. "Let me in."

"I might be contagious."

"I'll take my chances."

Once inside, she took a good look at him. He looked awful: Sweaty and pasty, with his hair matted to his forehead and bags under his eyes.

"I called you," she said. "Twice."

"I was asleep," he said. "I was awakened by this infernal banging on my front door."

She put her hand on his forehead: Clammy, but no fever.

"How long have you been like this?"

"Couple of hours."

"Why didn't you go home?"

"I told you…I was afraid I was contagious."

She peered at him.

"Do you think it might've been something you ate?"

"I dunno," he said.

"My God," she said, still staring at him. "You look horrible."  
She noticed that he was shivering, which was odd, because he didn't have fever.

"Can you hold anything down? Are you getting dehydrated?"

"Cuddy, I'm fine. I just need to sleep it off. I'll be good as new in a couple of days."

"A couple of days? How can you be so sure?"

"That's how long it usually takes for this sort of thing to work through my system," he said.

Then he closed his eyes and grimaced in pain.

"What was that?" Cuddy said.

"Stomach cramp," he said. "I think I'll just spend the rest of today doing my Jackson Pollack impression in the toilet. It won't be pretty. You should go."

"I'm not just going to leave you alone when you're this sick," she said.

"I'd prefer if you did," he said. "I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. And I'd feel terrible if you caught it. I'm serious Cuddy. Go."

"Can I at least bring you anything? Ginger ale? Toast?"

"I'm fine. I have everything I need. I'll call you when I'm feeling better."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

He practically ushered her to the door. And then she froze. She really was an idiot.

"You don't have the stomach flu," she said.

"Tell that to my cramping stomach."

She turned to look at him, angrily.

"You're detoxing."

"No, I'm not," he said.

"House, do not lie to me again. I swear to God, I can deal with anything except for you lying to my face—again."

He stared back—and they were in a mini face-off for a second. And then his shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She closed her eyes, feeling like a fool. Wilson was right. She believed because she wanted to believe. She so desperately wanted to see the best in him.

"I can't believe I felt sorry for you last night! I felt guilty."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"So what was the plan? That you detox here for a few days, come home and I'm none the wiser?"

"Yes," he said, and he winced a bit.

He looked like he was having a hard time standing, so she took mercy on him and led him to the couch.

She sat across from him. He yanked the throw blanket off the couch and began twisting it into knots, anything to distract him from the pain.

"I wanted to believe you so badly," she said, almost to herself.

"I fucked up," he said. "I know it. I'll come by in a few days and get my stuff. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

She started a bit.

"That's what you think? You think I'm going to kick you out?"

"You kicked me out for using your toothbrush, Cuddy," he said, ironically. "This is a little bit bigger."

Of course. On at least one small level, she was to blame for his lying. She'd made him feel like the ground could give out beneath him at any time.

"I'm not just going to bail on you because relapsed, House."

His eyes widened.

"You're not?" he said.

"No, you idiot. If I was going to bail on you, it would be because you lied to my face. _Twice._"

"I hate myself, Cuddy," he admitted. "I didn't want you to know I was so…pathetic."

"You're not pathetic, House. You're just human. That's all. Just a flawed human being like the rest of us. But you're _my_ flawed human, you know? I'm not giving up on you this easily."

He had tears streaming down his cheeks and she wasn't sure if it was from the physical pain or the relief that she wasn't giving up on him. Probably both.

Unable to resist, she went to him, holding his head against her chest as he shook and cried.

"I love you, you fool," she murmured.

"So what now?" he said, shakily, when they parted.

"Now, we get you through the next few days and then we start you in rehab—non-negotiable."

She looked to see if there was any resistance on his part, but he was nodding, obediently. "And you promise to tell me next time the pain is so bad you're thinking of using again."

"I will," he said, through chattered teeth. "I promise."

She pulled out her cell phone, called her assistant, cancelled all her appointments for the late afternoon, then called Julia and asked her to watch Rachel for the night.

"I'm all yours," she said.

THE END


End file.
